Page 12 of After Midnight

For a brief moment, the smile she wears falters.

And in that spark of a second, I know the truth.

She’s not a mirage.

She’s real.

And I have to see her again.

THE FOUR OF US WERE supposed to leave this morning, but I told the guys I wasn’t going with them. Our agent and go-to woman, Ashton Montgomery, almost had a conniption when I told her. She was not happy about having to figure out a new flight and travel plans for me. But I buttered her up the best way I know how: a big breakfast, complete with pancakes and a lavender mimosa. And after that, she was much more sympathetic to my plight, even though I refused to tell her why I wanted to stay in Vegas another day.

Now it’s Sunday night, and I’m back in the club, but I’m not in the VIP booth this time. I’m wearing a ball cap pulled low over my eyes, and no one has recognized me. Of everyone in the band, Dex and Lucas get recognized the most, with me and Michael being somewhat forgettable. But that works in my favor most of the time.

Like now, while I sit at the bar and try not to look like a total fucking creep as I scan the club for her.

For Mirage.

I haven’t seen her yet. It was probably stupid to postpone going back to LA without even confirming that she’s working tonight. I may have given Ashton a stress attack for nothing.

I’ll have to apologize when I get back home.

Slowly, I lift my water glass and take a sip. There’s a two-drink minimum to get in here, which I paid, but tonight, I’m sticking to drinking water. The desert and alcohol aren’t a great mix, and I’m running on way less sleep than I need to function like a normal human being.

But I couldn’t leave without seeing her again. Or without at least trying to.

Last night, I dreamt of her. She was holding my hand, leading me through Death Valley, dressed in nothing but a sheer blue robe. I was barefoot, skin burning, stumbling after her, but she moved through the sand like a sidewinder, like the desert is where she belongs. And just before the dream ended, she looked back at me over her shoulder, wisps of black hair blowing across her face, and said, “I’m not real, Sebastian. I’m just a mirage.”

My fingers tighten around my water glass.

I know how it goes with strippers. They’re the best actresses in the world. So it’s even more stupid for me to be sitting here, hoping to see her, hoping that maybe she might want to see me again.

Even if it’s just for the cash waiting in my wallet.

Another dancer gets introduced on the main stage, but I’m barely watching the show.

I should probably just leave, head back to the hotel and—

“Miss me?” a voice says to my right.

And I know that voice. It sends a burst of nervous excitement through me.

I turn, and she’s on the barstool next to me, chin propped in her hand, long dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks every time she blinks. She’s wearing a lacy skin-tight one-piece, and it makes her skin look even darker bronze in this light. Her legs are crossed, and she bounces her high-heeled foot as she stares at me, waiting.

For an embarrassingly long moment, I’m at a loss for words. It’s like her beauty chases all my brain cells away. Finally, I’m able to say, “How’d you know it was me?”

Mirage reaches out and squeezes my bicep through my T-shirt, then arches a brow. “I’d know these guns anywhere.”

My lips inch into a smile. “You probably tell all the guys that.”

She shrugs. “Yeah. But with you, it’s actually true.” Her gaze shifts to my water glass and two untouched bottles of beer. “Going hard tonight, hmm?”

I run a thumb along my glass, which is cool and wet against my palm. “Yeah. Real rager.”

Her lips turn up in the corners—not a full smile, but at least looking like they might want to shape one.

Then she asks me the question I’ve been tossing around in my head since I sat down.

“What are you doing here?”